Every Day is Half Past Four
by yuffiehighwind
Summary: Jason Sadler's memories are broken into fragments. These are some of them. (Fanfic in progress.)
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: **Jason Sadler's memories are broken into fragments. These are some of them. (Non-linear narrative. T for swearing. See the end of the last chapter for notes.)

* * *

**Every Day is Half Past Four**

It's never dark, always bright light, never dim never, white and bright and endlessly lonely. Time stretches on and on and maybe it stopped. Maybe it froze you here like this and even in your time that's just fiction, science fiction, but you did it, _you did it_, the machine _worked_ and you're here. Trapped by Guardians or Freelancers or maybe you're still at Riverview in the corner of the shower room babbling about going back. The idea pervades your thoughts consuming everything. Getting back, getting home, and if the Guardians/Freelancers/kidnappers/monsters can go back and forth, then why can't you?

Is it a week later or two weeks? You don't feel hungry here, your bowels don't move, there's no thirst, only air holes at the top they can close to torture you. Time _has_ to have stopped. Then why are you conscious and counting the seconds? What year is it? "What year is it?" you almost asked someone, before picking up a newspaper, because paper still exists here, and the feel of it under your fingers was alien.

Alien. Aliens. Is that what these men are? They say they're defending the timeline. Who decides what happens? You failed fail fail. Are they not satisfied you speak to ghosts, now? Like Father…always Father.

"Why is it so important to get back to 2077?" they asked at Riverview. "Did you leave a family behind? A wife, children?"

You laugh, imagining giving your girlfriend a ring and asking her to marry you, imagining her saying yes and never knowing if it was for you or the Sadler fortune.

You miss the taste of her but can't remember why.

"My father," you say. "I want..._need_ to get back to my father."

The social worker smiles and pats your hand.

Warren sneers through the glass.


	2. Chapter 2

"Is there anyone - anyone at all - we can discharge you to? A friend? Family member?"

"I'm not, um...I'm not sure. Wait, yes, my grandmother. My grandmother lives here. Ann Sadler. But she would be going by a different name now. I-I can't remember what her maiden name was."

"Can you tell us her address?"

"I...don't know that either."

"Is there _anyone_ else? Your parents, perhaps?"

"They haven't been..."

_They haven't been born yet_.

"They died."


	3. Chapter 3

"I'm your grandson."

Her friendly smile swiftly vanishes and she steps back with every step of yours forward, throwing up her hands and recoiling from your touch. It breaks your heart, because this is a person you heard stories about but never got to meet. It's remarkable seeing her now because your father never showed you pictures. The ones he painted with words were few but made you smile.

She is beautiful and fiercely protective, and you both glance at the toddler in the next room, your own face wistful. It seems impossible that child is your father. You could be dreaming again, and the dreams even happen when you're awake, now, so it's plausible. You're not, though. You won't be born for another fifty years, and when you turn to meet her eyes again, she's looking at you like she can almost believe it's true. She doesn't want to, but she does.

Any other person would kick you to the curb a lot sooner. Instead she makes a pot of tea.

"So," she says, once the tea is poured and both of you have calmed down. "You'll be needing a place to stay."

You apologize for the intrusion but are grateful she's said it, because you can feel your thoughts jumble again, racing faster than your mouth can keep up. They bang into each other, not making a lick of sense to her or anyone. It's easy to dismiss the claim a man like you is a time traveler.

You're fortunate she was already married to one.


	4. Chapter 4

"Hey, Dad," you say, and it's unreal when you hand him a toy elephant - they're extinct in your time - and he hugs it to his little chest. "I probably shouldn't be calling you that. It's against the rules."

For that reason, you hope he won't remember, but you wonder if the Alec you knew had lived this moment already. Wonder if there are no paradoxes, just an infinite loop. The Freelancers don't see it that way, but how can they know everything about time?

"You didn't tell me much about your childhood, like your own dad leaving or living on a farm. There's some cool stuff in the barn, but Ann doesn't want me going in there 'cause I might break something. It's all yours, though, someday. And you'll do so much with it. You'll be a great man. And I know Ann tells you that stuff too 'cause she's your mom and she's supposed to say that sort of thing, but I know for sure. I've seen it."

Alec marches the toy elephant across the rug like it's the savannah.

"I don't know what'll happen in 2012, but for now you're safe, with her."

You gently pat your father on the head and he looks up.

"Enjoy it."


	5. Chapter 5

"I can schedule a meeting with Mr. Sadler for next Tuesday at 9:30."

"You don't understand. My name is Jason Sadler. I'm his son."

When you walk past the PA's desk, he leaps up from his chair to block your path.

"I'm under strict orders, sir. No visitors without an appointment."

You're torn between threatening to fire the man and appealing to his compassionate side. There is a picture of his family on the desk - a husband and two children. All you've ever wanted was a real relationship with your father, but lately he won't return your calls. He won't visit on most holidays either, and he doesn't reach out to you unless he needs something. It's not just since you've gone to university, when families usually lose touch. (Especially since you traveled far away, attending MIT in Boston and interning at the Niels Bohr Institute in Copenhagen.) You were still a child when he withdrew his affection, like he'd forgotten he had a son at all until someone reminded him.

"Please. I haven't seen him in months."

The PA stares you down until you back away from the door.

"Then you should have made an appointment."

You reluctantly comply. After a brief, tense silence, you comment, "You have a lovely family," gesturing to the picture.

"Thank you," he says cautiously.

"How old are your daughters?"

"Seven and ten."

"I don't have any children, not yet. But if I did..."

You let the incomplete thought hang in the air.

"I'm sorry Mr. Sadler, but I have to ask you to leave."

With one last look at your father's door, (and he probably isn't there after all), you turn to go, saying, "I'll be back Tuesday at 9:30."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes:** Someone pointed out to me that Escher/Marc was the one who freed Jason from the Freelancers' prison, and that Jason lived with Marc along with Ann and baby Alec. He probably bought Jason's building as well, and I am going with this interpretation from Chapter 6 onward.

* * *

"Jason Sadler. Twenty-eight years old, born in Vancouver. No Social Insurance Number, no driving license, no passport. No record whatsoever. Either he's lying about his name or his birthplace."

"I hate to simplify these things, Director, but he seems to be..._confused_ about everything."

You were a good liar back home, when it came to your feelings, but you had little practice faking anything remotely like this. Your therapist talks about doctor-patient privilege. That anything you tell her will be kept confidential, but some of the paperwork they made you sign proves it's a lie. The hospital Director knows. Everybody knows. It's clear whenever you make little mistakes and misunderstandings with the other patients. This isn't your time. Records of this decade don't even exist in the future. You were told it was much worse than this, but the people outside these walls are living what looks to be a regular, happy life. Blissfully ignorant of the brutal realities of 20th century living. You envy them, now, locked up like this. Your brown suit has been taken and been replaced by white hospital attire. Turn it orange and it'd be more clear this is a prison.

"This is just between you and me, Jason. You can tell me anything, whatever you're going through."

You chuckle mirthlessly. "You won't believe a word of it."

The therapist softly smiles. "Try me."

You take a deep breath and begin. "There was an accident, and I was transported back in time."

As if flipping the switch that sent all of you back weren't intentional, in the middle of a fight with a cultist, desperate to prove yourself worthy of your father's love.

"Actually...It wasn't-it wasn't an _accident_. I was just sent back to the wrong year, is all."

You laugh nervously and run your fingers through your hair. This is insane. You can't even look her in the eye.

"I was-I wasn't supposed to-We were sending back this group of people, um, to the year 2012."

The therapist nods, writing this down. _Please don't write this all down_.

"But, but I was-I was too close to the machine, and-You're writing all this down?"

She looks up from her clipboard and says, "Just for my own notes."

It's easy to remember. 2077. Accident. Time machine. Crazy.

"Please continue."

You clear your throat, folding your hands in your lap, picking at your fingernails. You never did that. Your hands were always still.

"My father is a scientist. One of the most powerful tech moguls in North America, if not the world. And I gotta say, it really is crazy that the machine he created worked. Even in our time, even in 2077, it was only science fiction."

Your therapist's expression brightens, as if you're making a breakthrough, admitting this.

"But it _did_ work. I want more than anything for someone to believe me. That's why I need to find my grandparents."

The therapist perks up. If you can be handed into someone's care, perhaps you can get out of this hospital.

"But..."

"But what?"

"I have no idea how to find them."

"We'll work on that," says the therapist, and she could be lying through her teeth, or maybe she can really help. You'll find out later she'll promise and promise and won't even try.

"Anything else?" she asks.

You shake your head. Either this made things better or made it a hundred times worse.

When they hand you the little white cup of Thorazine, you find out it gets worse.


	7. Chapter 7

You learn everything about the 20th century from the other patients. Every pop culture reference, joke, and piece of slang. There's history you weren't taught in school, too, like it was scrubbed clean of all the West's faults. Dirty secrets about America, and you're actually embarrassed your countries merged in 2019.

_But will they, this time, with Liber8 on the loose?_

They call this "The Nuthouse," but many of the people at Riverview are here voluntarily and by all indications sane. They come in with their own clothes and belongings, and only anything sharp is taken away, along with choking hazards like shoelaces and belts and scarves. You always liked scarves, but they got in the way and so did ties, when you were hunched over a panelboard or transformer. Your face so close to a circuit that people would kindly remind you there were magnifiers for that.

"There ain't enough beds for these assholes," your chess partner tells you, nodding at the sullen young woman handing over her long, turquoise fabric. "There's people in real need here. These fakers just want the attention."

Drug addiction, depression, melancholy suicidal thoughts. Just as many people here are schizophrenic and can't take care of themselves, but your heart goes out to those people who want to stop breathing. Some come in on gurneys, while others give their parents a limp hug and shuffle in on two feet.

"They're aliens," your partner whispers, and he doesn't mean the human kind. "Rip off their skin and they'll be green underneath." He's not being sarcastic, either. Yet they've got him on a lower dose.

One day the pills make you drowsy; the next night you can't sleep. You were calm, under the circumstances, until a week into your treatment. Now the anxiety keeps you wired and nervous. The dayroom lets in lots of light on sunny days, but now it's too bright, so you trade a week's dessert for sunglasses. You're dizzy when you try to stand up, try to walk, so your doctor finally, _finally_ lowers the dose after months of suffering. You've learned from fellow patients how to fake sanity. They let you out to walk the grounds, to go from building to building. You're one of the least threatening schizophrenics here. You started teaching the others physics, for chrissake, and at least a quarter of them would listen.

But in Group, you're prompted to remember, and you bite your nails - you do that now - and fidget, and under the gaze of eight sets of eyes and the earnest prompting of the group leader, you admit that it's hard. It's hard to feel part of a world that isn't your own. You leave it vague in Group. Talk about your Vancouver childhood like it was 1974 and not 2059. (The world will change so very, very much.) They don't believe for a second you have a rich dad and two graduate degrees. Why would you be here? You prefer being quiet in Group, listening to these people's stories, their struggles. Riverview is boring without it, even with the dayroom's TV. Even with the small library of books made of real paper. Ripped and stained and smelling of cigarettes, but tangible, like an e-book isn't and can't be. You're actually allowed to borrow more than one at a time, and the nights you can't sleep, you devour them. At the bottom of the shelves you find the classic science fiction. William Gibson, Ray Bradbury, Arthur C. Clarke, Isaac Asimov, Jules Verne, H.G. Wells. Tonight, you pick up "The Time Machine" again, because someone's screaming down the hall, and you need something to help you forget.


	8. Chapter 8

"Where's Rebecca?"

You think perhaps you entered the wrong office, but for the kitten hanging from a branch on the wall, with the words "Hang in there, baby!" under it. It still smells like her. Of pencil shavings and hidden cigarettes. The faint whiff of air freshener.

The mess of paperwork has been cleared off the desk, slotted neatly into folders in the half-open cabinet. A middle-aged man in a suit smiles tightly at you and says, "Miss McCarthy has moved on. I'm Dr. Melville and will be taking over your treatment."

He gestures for you to sit and you do so hesitantly.

"What do you mean by 'move on?'"

Dr. Melville's mouth doesn't change much from that solid pressed line unless he's speaking. The corners of his mouth droop slightly, but you need to look hard to notice. You're examining his face, now, like you'd examine a circuit, your mind racing to figure out why the one compassionate staff member here would have left you.

"You're not like the others, Mr. Sadler, so I'll be straight with you. The hospital has had some cutbacks, and we are consolidating all our caseloads. You'll be seeing me from now on, but it will be biweekly."

Not like the others. Not like the other schizophrenics. Smart enough to know the hospital's bleeding money and Rebecca's been fired.

"So let's get down to it, Mr. Sadler." He catches himself, meeting your gaze and narrowed eyebrows. He quietly chuckles. "Pardon me. _Jason_. I've been reviewing your file, and I see that you have still held on to some of your more...questionable beliefs."

You tilt your head and say, "Why do you think that? In, uh, in my last session..."

"We have eyes and ears all over this hospital, Jason," Dr. Melville says. "Your conversations with the other patients have been noted. You still believe in time travel."

You look down at your lap. You should have been more careful.

"I am upping your dose of Thorazine."

Your head snaps up.

"You can't do that! Rebecca just lowered my dose! She said I was getting better!"

"I'd suggest you watch your tone, Jason," Dr. Melville says, scowling. If you had stood up, if you had banged on the table like you wanted, an orderly would come in with a tranquilizer and who knows what you'd end up taking.

"This is for your own good. I am also confiscating your books. Science fiction has not helped your condition improve." He shakes his head, disappointed. "'The Time Machine,' Jason? Really?"

You cross your arms. "It's a classic."

"It's polluting your mind," he says, and Rebecca would never say something like this. "And we don't want that, do we?"

You take a deep breath. Stare blankly out the window behind him. There are people out on the lawn playing kick-ball.

"That'll be all."

You glance at the cat barely hanging onto its branch, seconds from falling. Cats land on their feet. What can humans do?


	9. Chapter 9

You turn 30 at Riverview, and birthday celebrations aren't much different in the 20th century than they are in your time. The other patients manage to scratch together a cake, and a staff member gets you a half-melted 3 and 0. You're not allowed to light them, but you mime blowing them out anyway. In the future the candles are electronic, their flames simulated, but the tradition is the same. An embarrassing song and a chant to make a wish. You purse your lips and wish you were home.

Clicking your heels three times doesn't work, despite another patient's insistence to the contrary. Your only shot is access to some kind of nuclear facility. A cutting edge lab working on fusion power. Enough energy to open a wormhole, like your father did. Like you did, defiantly throwing that switch.

You wish you could let go of regret.

This is in between long naps and dazed periods of staring out the window. Birds don't care what time it is, they focus on the present. Maybe you should have wished you were a bird. Your friends worry. They teach you a trick, hiding your pills under your tongue. But the nurse catches on and makes you lift your tongue, to make sure you swallow. New trick is to tuck the pills in your cheek. Spit them out and chuck them in the trash later.

You can't get the hang of it. Your roommate shakes your shoulder and asks for another lesson in quantum physics. You've forgotten what that is.

* * *

The discharges are occasional, then become more frequent. Everybody congratulates each exiting resident, who are deemed well enough to leave and make a fresh start on the outside. But some are hesitant, others distraught. Most of them have no money, no family or friends to take them in. The staff reassure them there's a half-way house in Eastside Vancouver and plenty jobs waiting.

Entire wards are emptied out, mostly the recovering drug addicts and patients with depression. The schizophrenics are last, most of them transferred to your own ward. Dr. Melville calls you into his office one last time.

He gives you that tight smile, hands folded on his desk. The cat poster is missing, replaced with two diplomas, one from Concordia University.

"Jason, I'm pleased to tell you that I have evaluated your case, and you have proved functional enough to be discharged from this hospital."

Your mouth drops, then closes again. A swirl of emotions nearly overcome you. Relief, joy, fear, apprehension.

"I...don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything. Just gather your things, and you will be escorted to a shuttle back to Vancouver."

You shake your head. "My friends..."

"You have two hours to say goodbye. I wish you the best of luck."

Rebecca would hug you, but Dr. Melville merely goes back to his work. You don't even get a handshake. He only cares you're one less mouth to feed.

Back at the ward, you shake hands, slap backs, say goodbye to people both lucid and distracted by whatever visions plague them. They look up at you and don't recognize you. The lucid ones congratulate you like they have everybody else. One warns you it's dangerous on the outside, and nothing like having a warm bed and three meals a day.

"I'll get by," you say, but you haven't had to survive on your own a day in your life. This will be a totally new experience. After two years here, you're not sure how you'll manage. No social insurance number, no identification, no record at all. No money.

Trousers, shirt, long coat and sunglasses. Your friends hand you layers of shirts and a headband to cover your ears. It's cold on the outside. Rainy season.

You're back in the city, near the harbor where you first arrived. You check into the half-way house with no bag, only a toothbrush in your pocket. The place is crowded and there's only so many beds. You're directed to a homeless shelter down the street that's also missing free beds, that directs you to yet another. They can't turn you away, but they can't give you a bed either. You learn to sleep on the floor with your coat as a pillow. They can give you one meal a day, and it'll have to suffice until you find a job. But who would hire a ghost?

* * *

The others teach you how to get by. How to panhandle for change, how to dumpster dive, how to steal. You experience terrible withdrawal from the Thorazine leaving your system. You were supposed to titrate down dose by dose. Suddenly it's gone, blood clean of the drug. You look like a recovering junkie. Kinda feel like one, too. But clarity returns. Brain fog gone, mind operating on full steam again. Analyzing your situation. Coming up with a plan.

Failing miserably to make any progress.

You're 30 years old and you're starving, stuck in a time that isn't yours, living a life you've never lived, on streets with the same names but filthier sidewalks. You haven't laundered your clothes in weeks, haven't showered in days, but you tell yourself you can make it another day, a day at a time.

But there's somebody following you. Another ghost, in a black suit. An olive skinned man with a mustache. The black man you fought back in 2077. These men appear across the street, then disappear when you turn to look. You feel like you're being watched, like you're being followed. And oh shit, oh no. You forgot about them. How insistent they were you don't send Liber8 back, don't corrupt the timeline. You're a mistake, you're not supposed to be here. You're a danger.

_Oh, God, they're going to kill you._


	10. Chapter 10

A van pulls up and someone throws a black bag over your head. That's what you get for walking the Eastside at night, alone. They knew where you lived, where you spent all your time. They cased your routine and finally caught you. It's the Freelancers, it has to be. Ghosts just like you. You don't have much time left.

You scream, but you're already inside the van and no one can hear you.

"Should I gag him?" a familiar voice asks. There's no reply; the driver probably nodded. The bag is lifted briefly enough for a cloth to be slotted between your teeth and tied behind your head. Everything goes dark again. You take deep breaths, assuring yourself it'll all have been worth it. Liber8 will make it to 2012. History will be changed.

The drive is long and you've lost track of how many blocks it's been. But you know you haven't left the city. Vancouver's a big place, and their headquarters will be in someplace nondescript. Some place part of the community no one would think to check. A hand tightly grips your arm and you're shoved out the van and through a door. You count each step like an escape is even possible. An elevator ride down and into a long hallway, the air feels damp, the smell musty. You're in the city's old underground tunnels.

You struggle to get out of the handcuffs cutting into your wrists, elbowing the Freelancer prompting you forward, and hear him grunt in pain. Then there's a needle in your neck and you lose consciousness.

You wake sometime later stripped of your clothes and dressed in loose white pants and an undershirt. Barefoot. You're laying on the floor and the first thing you see are steel bars and fluorescent lights. Looking around, you're trapped by tall, cloudy glass walls. The cell is about 6 feet by 6 feet, enough to lay down, to sit, to pace, but not much else. The floor is hard and there is no bed, not even a cot. You groan, sitting up. The new environment is jarring; you thought you'd be dead by now. You bang on the glass and shout. Nobody comes.

Hours later, you see a face beyond the glass. It's the Freelancer from 2077.

"Comfortable?" he asks. You respond with a rude gesture. He sneers.

"Why haven't you killed me?" you ask.

"It wasn't up to me to decide."

"Then who decides?"

"I can't divulge that information."

You bang on the glass. "You can't do this!"

"You're an anomaly, Mr. Sadler. A glitch. We can't allow you to walk the streets and change history."

"I didn't do anything! I kept to myself! I-"

"It's not a risk we can afford to take." The man turns to leave and you bang on the glass again.

"What you've done is inhumane. I need food and water and-"

"These things will be provided to you, in due time."

"'In due time?' After I die of thirst?"

"Just another hour, Sadler. Here, you'll learn to be patient."

The man leaves what appears to be a large room with high ceilings. You can see a row of cells similar to this one, as if they have been prepared in advance for some influx of "time anomalies."

_One, two, three..._

Ten cells. Enough for the members of Liber8 and two extra.

The Freelancer is true to his word, and a meal is brought to you along with a bucket for waste. Opening the cell wall would allow a large enough exit for escape, so the ceiling grate is opened and the items lowered down to you. You tear into your meal voraciously. The bucket is a relief as well. But there's no pillow forthcoming. No blanket. And the lights. The lights are always on. Why? You feel like you're in a zoo, like some tourists will walk in any second to watch you pace your cell like a caged animal.

Your second day, or maybe your third or fourth, it's difficult to tell in this place, you get to meet the rest of your tormentors. You won't get a much different answer to why you've been captured and caged like this - your father might do the same thing, were he in the same position - but you'll get to meet the person who will decide your fate.

An older man, a man Dr. Melville's age, sits behind a gold desk, hands folded. Instead of paper files, he's manipulating a holographic touch screen from your time. Otherwise, this feels familiar. He even looks like him. Same short, gray hair neatly parted on the left, same taut lips. Or maybe it's the confinement and the lights messing with your brain. Already? Your mind is stronger than that.

"Jason Sadler." He's reading the name off a chart, question in his voice, as if you aren't the famed Alec Sadler's only child. The man who discovered time travel and changed history forever.

He minimizes the window and looks up.

"You have no idea how important you are, do you?"

You shrug. You did, and you do, and you're definitely aware now.

"I'm just a guy," you say. "You've got the wrong guy."

You look around the room, and this meeting has drawn several other members into the room. A pale, brown-haired man and a young black woman hang back by the door, whispering to each other. They wear the same black suits, her in a pencil skirt.

"I'm not the Jason Sadler you think I am," you fervently insist, but the Freelancer from 2077 approaches and stands beside his boss. He can confirm you are, in fact, the Sadler heir. That you're responsible for the mess they've been forced to clean up.

"You will tell us all you know, Jason," says the man behind the desk. You shake your head. You can't, you won't. You're protecting eight dangerous criminals and a Protector whose very presence will make ripples in the timeline, but your father is depending on you. He put all his faith in you. You can't-

"Whether you want to or not."


	11. Chapter 11

You know now why people in movies tick off each day on their cell walls. You don't know how long you've been in here, and it's difficult to focus in such a place. Your dreams are brightly lit, when you do dream, and sometimes you dream you're still in your cell, so maybe you're not dreaming at all. The tall, elderly man in the corner watching you tells you otherwise, but maybe he really is here to rescue you. To set the record straight. To take responsibility.

"You've disappointed me, Jason," he says calmly. "I was counting on you to save my legacy."

You scramble to your feet.

"Father, I-"

"I don't want to hear your excuses. I thought you were a man of your word."

"But I really did send Liber8 to 2012, just like you asked! We did it! It worked!"

Alec shakes his head. "No, Jason. The timeline unfolded just the same. I admit, I've made mistakes. But this was supposed to set things right. I shouldn't have left it to an amateur."

The word "amateur" drips with derision.

It breaks your heart, and the despair is too much right now. Is there any point to any of this?

"How can..." You tear at your hair, tears streaming down your face. Your back hits the wall with a thud and you sink down to the floor. "How can I fix this? What do you need me to do?"

Alec gets down on one knee, gently takes your chin in his hand and tilts your face up.

"To die."

You blink and suddenly you're lying on your side. It was just another nightmare. Your dad wasn't here to rescue you and he wasn't here to kill you. He wasn't here at all.


	12. Chapter 12

The Freelancers demand every drop of knowledge you have about your father's project. The names of every technician, every scientist. Anything he ever shared with you about the machine. How it worked, what it was made of, how he intended to pull it off. When you can't explain in words, you're given a blank screen to draw on with your finger. Diagrams and equations, and about two thirds of it make the Freelancers chuckle like it's child's play. Alec Sadler was, is, will be a genius, who surrounds himself with the best minds from every field. He shared hardly any of his secrets; you had to piece this stuff together before asking him what it was all for. He didn't tell you a goddamn thing for certain until the morning of the "execution."

These people don't need to know the specifics, and you can't remember half of them. They're time travelers from the future, from some time beyond 2077. Surely they know how to do it already. It's names they want, and the names are more difficult to remember than the engineering. Faces from SadTech were a blur, employees going and coming all the time. You did your own work over in Electrical Engineering, but not the top secret kind. Employees on the time project had their identities hidden; you couldn't name them with the clearest of heads.

"I don't know," is an answer that elicits electric shocks from your captors. "I can't remember" gets a similar response, and it isn't until you're convulsing on the floor that someone forcibly snatches the prod away.

"Shh, shh, it's okay," she coos, rubbing your back. You're not in your cell; they've brought you to Not-Melville's office for this indignity.

When you're well enough to open your eyes, you look up into two concerned brown ones. It's the pencil-skirted woman from your first week there. She must be new, because nobody else seems to care you're suffering. It's as if they blame you for some future calamity they know about already. _It's all my fucking father's fault!_ you want to scream. You'd scream yourself hoarse.

"Take deep breaths," she tells you, then turns to look up at the two Freelancers who sprout black wings and turn into demons in your dreams.

"That's enough, Warren!"

"Catherine-"

"Save it, Miller!"

You whisper something and Catherine asks you to repeat it. _Water_. _Please, water_. She gets some and eases you into a sitting position so you can drink it. There's a tiny planet floating in it, an alternate Earth, or maybe that's just dust.

Warren and Miller scoff like this is a woman thing and not common human decency.

"You've done well, Jason," she says, smiling comfortingly. "Believe me, all the information you have shared has helped us greatly."

You gulp down the rest of the water before being marched back to the Cage. It's time for your monthly shower. The water pressure of the hose is more painful today.


	13. Chapter 13

Someone needs to turn off that light, you used to say, but now you're resigned to its never-dimming presence. And it's hard to tell now if your eyesight is degrading or if it's just the cell's foggy glass. Someone rarely comes except to take your waste and bring you food. You sit in one corner for days, then alternate. The one that faces away from the hall door is your favorite, because weeks of anxiously watching it, waiting for rescue, made you crazy. Crazi_er_. A mind like yours, that spends a third of the time hallucinating, another third panicking, and the other third laughing until you cry and crying until you laugh, can't really fit more crazy in its schedule.

You wish somebody had left you something to write with. A dry erase marker would be perfect, because you could practice your equations. Then again, it'd be a heartbreak to have to erase some in order to fit more. Some really great breakthroughs might be made, if they only gave you the chance. The Freelancers could even take all the credit! Privateers, sailing the seas of history and steering it wherever they want.

* * *

Maybe it's a week or seven or fifty or one hundred weeks (or maybe it's actually been a thousand years!) into your confinement when the brown-haired man stops lurking on the edge of your vision and actually talks to you.

"Jason," he says, but he's muffled behind the glass. He steps closer, so his voice can be heard through the grate at the top of your cell without carrying too far. "Jason," he says, and he doesn't ask how you are because who would ask you such a question?

You open your mouth to croak a response, when he says, "Don't talk, just listen carefully." Intrigued, you stand up weakly, and press your face to the glass.

"In two days time, I am going to be on watch duty. I will come to you that night, and I will get you out of here."

You blink slowly, uncomprehending. This has to be another dream.

"Two days, Jason. I promise."

He places his palm on the glass for a moment before turning to exit. Okay, that was weird, and that's probably the weirdest thing about this place. People are kind to you one moment, then shatter your hopes the next.

* * *

Two days, two days. It's gotta be another trick. Another carrot to keep you going for whatever they have planned for you. What do they have planned? You've agonized over and over and over this question before realizing their plan is to leave you in here until they come up with a plan. It's amateur crap that would get you kicked out of any school or office but makes you perfect for upper-level time prison management.

Ha! That was funny. Sometimes you're funny. A minute later, you forget what was so funny about it.

The door to the hall opens and the young brown-haired man is back with a duffle-bag over his shoulder. When he opens the cell door, you don't stand, just look at him with confusion. _He came back?_

The Freelancer unzips the bag and removes a bundle of clothing.

"Put this on as quickly as you can and come with me."

"Wh-what? Why?"

"Because this is an escape." When you still don't pick up the clothes, he says, "I am getting you out, but we don't have much time. Get dressed."

He has to pull you to your feet to get you to move, but his grip isn't as hard and rough as Miller or Warren's, more like Catherine's.

He keeps a lookout while you slowly dress, and apparently you're not moving fast enough, because he helps you into socks and shoes, leading you out the door before you can pull your new coat on.

The tunnels are as confusing with your eyes open as they are blind-folded, and the fear that courses through you has you dragging your feet. The Cage is torture, but it's familiar. You're used to it by now. You don't know where this man is taking you or what awaits you outside.

"Why are you doing this?" you ask, voice wavering.

"Because I can't stand by while someone's stripped of their humanity."

You encounter nothing and no one between the Cage and the surface, where the city noise grates your ears and the stars give you vertigo. _The stars!_ You can smell fresh air and gasoline, and it's all so overwhelming you could cry. You _are_ crying.

He gently guides you in the passenger side door of a sedan parked outside. You suck on your sleeve and once you've driven at least an hour in total silence, you quietly ask, "Who are you?"

"My name's Marc." The man smiles at you warmly. "Marc Sadler."


	14. Chapter 14

The ride across town is a blur of buildings and people, street lamps and cars. You haven't been outside the Freelancers' bunker in two years, Marc says, though it feels much longer. But he doesn't dump more information than his name on you until you're in a scrubby hotel room, in a place Marc says people don't ask questions.

It's a bit overwhelming, and you don't feel safe until Marc bolts the door. The Freelancers will be here any minute, you think, and you mention this several times until Marc gently grasps your arms and tells you it's safe, you're free. You don't have to worry anymore.

It's a lie and he's lying, because the Freelancers have eyes and ears everywhere. Marc keeps glancing at his watch, but doesn't hurry you. The room has two beds and he gestures for you to pick one. You can't get comfortable, so you take your blanket and pillow and spread them out on the floor.

Marc leaves for a short while, and the wait leaves you anxious. You curl up in the bathroom tub with the curtain shut until he gets back. He's got food, three bags of cheeseburgers and fries. You tear into one bag and with a sore belly eat some of the other. Marc calmly eats his own burger and watches you carefully, and his stare is unnerving so when he realizes it bothers you he looks away.

Fed and rested, you're ready for Marc's explanation for why you're here. He's ashamed he knew all along, that he didn't help you sooner, but asks for forgiveness. He has a family. A wife, a newborn son. He needed to piece a plan together that kept the four of you out of danger. Escape wasn't possible until now.

He timed it just right, moving his family to the country, about 500 kilometers inland and near Adams Lake.

"Ann already knows about you," Marc says, "but she doesn't know everything."

He hands you a disposable razor and some shaving cream, but your hands are shaking so bad he sits you on the toilet and does it for you. It's funny, and touching, and you want to laugh or cry or both. Your father didn't teach you to shave, and here's your grandfather making up for lost time.

He's risking his life and his family's life, breaking you out. You do cry, just a little, and Sadlers aren't supposed to cry. Marc cuts your hair next, and when you look in the mirror for the first time in two years, you don't recognize yourself. The man in the mirror died a long time ago. He leaves it a little longer in the back; Marc isn't the best barber. But it's Jason Sadler, back from the dead.

* * *

The drive to Adams Lake is long, and you take a break in a city called Hope. Your mind goes in and out between fuzzy and alert. Time travel makes your brain hurt. You and your grandfather, the same age, and you're about to meet your father. Your father! Your father is still a baby. It's amazing, it's messed up, it's impossible.

You don't know what Marc told your grandmother (your grandmother!) about why he moved them out here, but the view is incredible. There are birds and squirrels, and a blue sky with wispy white clouds floating above. You stare at the lake, mind wandering, eyes drawn to every living thing you haven't seen in two years, some you haven't seen ever. Ann is waiting inside, and you suck on your sleeve, eyes downcast, until Marc says, "Ann, I'd like you to meet my cousin Jason."

Ann holds out her hand to shake, but your hands are still drawn up into your sleeves, a green sweater too big for your emaciated frame.

"My mother's name was Annie!" you blurt.

Ann and Marc exchange a look out the corner of your eye. You can't help nervously glancing around the foyer, at everything but Ann. Your grandmother is younger than you, and it's weird. This is weird. You give her a wavering smile.

_"What happened to him?" she'll ask. "He has PTSD," Marc will reply, and leave it at that until the night terrors stricken you and she needs a longer answer. Marc will reveal your past in bits and pieces, and the Freelancers are not time travelers, they're gangsters. It's just as heartbreaking an explanation for Marc's double life, but the alternative would put him in the Nuthouse too. _

You want to thank her for the hospitality - she has no idea just how big a thanks she deserves - but you forget the word "hospitality" and say a quiet, curt, "Thanks." She leads the two of you into the kitchen, where a little curly-haired blonde boy sits in a highchair and looks up with wide, curious blue eyes.

"This is Alec," Ann says, scooping him up into her arms. "Say 'hi' Alec."

"Hi," he says. Your face breaks out in a big grin. You wave at the boy, at your father, and maybe things won't be so bad.

* * *

Miller and Warren are spraying you with the hose again, and the lights in your cell brighten so much it hurts your eyes. They laugh cruelly and sprout black wings. You struggle to breathe, and claw at the glass until your fingers are bloody stubs. The walls shrink closer and closer. Four feet, three feet. They mean to crush you, now, between two panes of glass to fit under their microscopes. You scream in terror, "No, no, no!"

"Easy, easy now," says a voice, and you're suddenly in a bed in a strange room. It's dark, and there's a hand on your shoulder. You pull away from the touch, but listen to the quiet, calming voice. It's Marc.

"It's okay, you're okay," he says, and fuck no, you're not okay. But you know what he means. You're safe, you're free. You're free from The Cage.

"I can't," you choke. Can't go back, can't sleep. You sit up, kick off the blankets, and sit in silence with Marc for who knows how long.

"I can't do this."

"You can do this, Jason."

"I'm not-I can't-this isn't right, it's not right."

"What isn't right?"

"What year is it?" you ask.

Marc pauses before answering.

"It's 1996."

You shake your head.

"It's 1996, Jason, but I promise we'll figure something out."

_Don't make promises you can't keep_.

"I'll make things right," he says. Promises, promises.

"Go back to sleep."

"No."

Marc sighs. "Let's go downstairs, get you a glass of water."

He leaves, and after a minute, you follow. Ann intercepts you in the hallway. Your mind finally registers Alec has been crying.

"What happened? What's wrong?" Ann says frantically.

"Jason had a bad dream," Marc tells her. Embarrassed and feeling guilty for waking Alec, you stand behind Marc like he's a shield. But Ann isn't upset about you waking her son, she's worried something horrible has happened. She relaxes, expression sympathetic with only a hint of annoyance. Marc's prepared her for this.

"Marc, can you take care of Alec?" He nods, and she turns to you. "Come with me. I'll make you a cup of tea."

She cinches the belt on her robe and leads you to the kitchen. There she sets the kettle on the stove, putting out two mugs and two bags of tea. The package says Salada and the bag smells of orange pekoe.

"My mother used to say tea cured everything." Once the water has boiled, she pours it into each mug. "I can't speak to that, but whenever I'm struggling, or feeling sad, tea always helps." She smiles. "Do you take milk and sugar?"

You pick up the mug and breathe deep, letting the steam rise up your nose.

"Got any honey?"

Ann retrieves some from the cabinet, and the container's in the shape of a little bear. The 20th century is full of surprises.

"We always had tea at my house growing up," you hear yourself say, "even the rare stuff." You chuckle quietly. "Chamomile, peppermint, passion fruit, ginger, oolong, roiboos, chai..."

Ann's eyebrows raise. She looks impressed. You feel impressed you can remember.

"My nanny taught me all about tea when I was little." You pour the honey and stir it with shaky fingers. "Bon pour votre santé. Good for what ails ya."

* * *

**Original Notes for Chapters 1-5**

*Riverview Hospital was a psychiatric facility located in Coquitlam, BC, just outside Vancouver. It closed in 2012. It was the hospital that faced a lot of controversy in the early 1990s when it discharged hundreds of patients to cut costs, which is something Jason mentions to Kiera in S1E10, Endtimes, though he doesn't mention Riverview by name.

*Warren was the leader of the Freelancers, second to Catherine, in Seasons 2 and 3.

*When Alec takes the drug Flash in S2E3, Second Thoughts, he remembers Ann and Jason having an argument. It's possible this is when she met Jason for the first time. When Alec brings this up in S2E12, Second Last, Jason says he lived with them for a while, but had to leave to protect them. In S3E3, Minute to Win It, it's revealed that Ann knew Marc faked his death and became Mr. Escher. It's possible Ann believed Marc and Jason really were time travelers.

*The title is a slightly tweaked lyric from the song Thorazine Shuffle by Savatage.

**Notes for Chapter 6+ **

*Someone pointed out to me that Escher/Marc was the one who freed Jason from the Freelancers' prison, and that Jason lived with Marc along with Ann and baby Alec. He probably bought Jason's building as well, and I am going with this interpretation from Chapter 6 onward.

*I mentioned Jason attending MIT in Chapter 5, "in Boston," but Boston would have been flooded long before 2067. That's not to say the city wouldn't have relocated itself inland and kept the same name. (We're stubborn like that!) A new incarnation of the university may have kept this name as well. I first made this gaff because I forgot how devastated by climate change and civil unrest North America became in the series, and how much tight control Alec would have kept on Jason to make certain he didn't know how messed up the world really was. He probably attended what is currently known as the University of British Columbia, getting his practical experience at SadTech. (This actually makes it more depressing, if Alec still had little to do with him.)

*The series isn't clear how old Jason actually is, and the introduction of his mother Annie in S4E4 "Zero Hour" complicates things. Jason tells Alec that he originally met Annie when he was in his thirties, and they are approximately the same age. If Jason were the same age as the actor who plays him, Ian Tracey, math would put Jason's birth in the year 2049, when Annie would be in her fifties. There's no reason to postpone having a child for so long (especially until a time of civil unrest like the 2040s!), and menopause typically begins in a woman's forties. Jason would more likely have been born _at least_ ten years earlier, in 2039. (The math that put his birthdate in 2049 went like this: Ian Tracey was 48 in 2012. Jason first arrives in 1992, twenty years earlier. This would make him 28 in 1992/2077, if he were the same age as Tracey.) I've made it clear which version I chose. I decided to place his birth in 2049. (Plus, I liked the idea he was the same age as Kiera. They were both fairly young, and both grew up in a messed up world they thought was normal, only later realizing how disturbing it actually was.)


End file.
